


The Real Deal

by TinternAbbey



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen, just a colorful little monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinternAbbey/pseuds/TinternAbbey
Summary: Crutchy really can't stand those fake crips.





	The Real Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from fanfiction.net.

You know, I always try my hardest not to hate nobody, but I really can't stand them fake crips. You know what I mean, right? The ones that hobble around all pathetic, clutching their perfectly good limbs and whining so's they can sell a few extra papes. Yeah, _those_ kinds of crips. They may look all sweet and pitiful-like, but I'm telling you, they ain't the real deal.

I can always spot a faker. They're always looking for attention, like they're the center of the whole universe or something, and they gets all teary-eyed at the drop of a hat, like they're in so much pain it's making 'em cry like babies.

Pathetic, I says.

Now _I_ don't never play that game, but of course I'm a real crip who don't want no pity from nobody, nohow. 'Course it's tough bein' crippled and all, but Jack himself says I'm as good a newsie as anybody, and when a fella like Jack Kelly says something like that you just gotta believe him.

You know, the fakers don't know the first thing about selling papes as a crip. Sure, they _thinks_ they knows how to put on the act and give a good show, but if they was to get crippled for real they'd quit the business faster than you can say "Pulitzer."

Take Socket for example. Kid's a year or two younger than me, only he bathes a whole lot less, let me tell you. Always sells by the bakery crying out "Extry! Extry!" like some fella kicked him in the gut. Just listen to the bum. Thinks he can sell more papes by sounding like he's dying, but there ain't much a dying newsie can do with a pile of pennies, 'cept maybe bury 'em like treasure.

We had a fella at the lodging house who did just that a coupla years back. Poor kid had a nasty case of that hoity-toity sounding disease, noo-moan-ya or something like that. Anyways, the poor kid don't make it and we gather up all his poor belongings, but we can't find his earnings nowhere. So then a week later Racetrack loosens one of the floorboards so's he can hide his lucky deck of cards, but ol' Race don't find no empty hiding spot. There's the sick kid's stash, sitting there plain as day. Poor fella probably just wanted to keep a part of himself to himself, you know what I mean?

But wait. Wait, I'm . . . whaddya call it? There's a fancy word that starts with a "D" or something. Dictating? Directing?

Digressing! That's it! I'm digressing. The guys always say I talk enough to make a fella go deaf, but I _like_ talking. Where would we be if nobody ever said a word?

But back to good ol' Socket. You remember Socket, right? Sure looks like that kid's only got one arm when you're not looking too close, don't it? And it sure looks like poor Socket's struggling something awful, carrying around his papes all one-handed and all. You're probably thinking, "Boy, I oughtta buy a pape or two to lighten the poor mite's load," am I right?

Well anyone who falls for that is a sucker. The kid's got you right in his grimy little pocket.

I knows for a fact that Socket's got both his arms, same as you and me, only he tucks one of his arms inside his shirt so's you can't see it. He's real clever about it, too, but I seen him walking 'round with both arms hanging free when he ain't trying to make dough off some poor sucker who feels bad for him.

Liars like him oughtta join a circus or something.

Boy, though, sometimes I'd like to be in Socket's place. Must be nice to walk around with all your limbs nice and perfect, not having to worry about a coupla bums like the Delanceys catching you 'cause you can't run fast enough.

Some nights I dream of running, you know. Not hobbling all fast-like, but _really_ running on both legs without the crutch or nothing. If I could run the way I does in my dreams, Oscar and Morris Delancey would never get their ugly mitts on me again.

'Course, some nights I dream of the carriage, too. The carriage is what got me all crippled in the first place.

See, I was maybe eight? Nine? I ain't really keeping track of my years, you know. Can't even remember my own birthday 'less someone reminds me. Am I digressing again? I'm digressing again, ain't I? Anyways, I'm just a youngster when I run out into the street, chasing after some ball I'm playing with, when this big ol' carriage comes outta nowhere and spooks me so bad, I fall down and one of the wheels runs right over my leg. I thought I'd never stop howling.

Guess I mighta been all right in the end, but the doctor who patched me up was a lousy quack. The leg didn't heal proper and I been limping on the crutch ever since.

Yeah, yeah, you're probably thinking, "At least you still _got_ a leg, Crutchy." But do you got any idea how hard it is carrying a load of papes while managing a crutch to boot? It ain't no walk in the park, let me tell you.

Still, it's better than letting anyone carry me, that's for certain. I still gots my pride, you know.

Just remember that I'm the real deal as far as crips go, so you oughtta think twice before buying papes from them fakers, okay?

Pleasure doing business with ya.


End file.
